Play@YSDC

There's a sudden buffet of wind against the shuttered windows, rattling the steel casing against the wooden frames, as a billowing ash cloud passes them by, blanketing the door's window in darkness. The whole building seems to rattle and shake, the noise erupting loudly around them and encompassing them in noise and vibrations that shoot up and down their very bones. The electric lights flicker all around them. The CD player erupts in jarring static and fragments of music. Then the lights explode, showering glass shards everywhere, and the room is plunged into darkness.

"...The hell!" Charles exclaims as he instinctively raises his arm to shield his face at the sight and sounds of the lights exploding. In the darkness he can feel the shards raining down upon him. He winces as he lowers his arm, once again feeling the pellets stuck in his flesh from the shotgun blast; the rush of adrenaline having passed.

As the afterimage of the exploding lights fade from his eyes, he peers into the darkness. The room is cloaked in complete black.

"Hey!" He calls out to Rochelle. "What was that all about?"

He waits for a response...

His only response is an angry wind that whips against the shuttered windows, banging on the door, and the ringing in his ears. The place is dark, nearly pitch black, though he's pretty sure he has a lighter somewhere about his person that might provide some illumination. Perhaps Rochelle had gotten knocked out by some of the debris?

Charles fumbles through his pockets, searching for his lighter. Upon finding it, he removes it and, on the second attempt, manages to light it. Holding it aloft, he scans the room for any sign of Rochelle...

The only sign of her is a shadow that marks the floor. A shadow of congealed ash.

Charles stands over the ash, bewildered...

What the hell is going on here....?

He balances himself against a table, knowing he needs to get to a hospital soon. Unfortunately, Rochelle was to be the one to lead the way...

"LILY!" Charles shouts out.

Did that crazy bitch say that Lily was gone before all this happened? That can't be...

Charles extinguishes his lighter and waits a few minutes for the metal to cool. He then re-lights it and makes his way towards the washroom in the flickering glow to investigate...

If my dear sister is playing a game of hide and seek, there'll be hell to pay...

There is a small, folded white card that seems to have been dropped near the ash by the counter. Checking through the Staff door, he can see a short hallway whose bathroom door on the right has been left somewhat ajar.

Before proceeding down the hallway to the bathroom, Charles picks up the white card and unfolds it, holding the lighter close in order to see....

What's this...?

The card simply says:

WhAt Is LoSt MaY yEt Be FoUnD
oVeR tHe DaRk & uNdErGrOuNd
HaUnTeD pLeAsEs BrOkEn SoUnD
lIgHt ThE bOrDeRs & hUnKeR dOwN
rOsEs TwIsT tHe CoRdEd CrOwN
mAy YoUr BlIsS bE oVeR nOw

The lighter is beginning to warm up.

Charles reads the card, shakes his head and pockets it absent-mindedly. He extinguishes the lighter to cool it off and waits in the dark before proceeding...

OOC,Does Charles have his gun still and the tire iron after the confusion of the previous scene? If not, he'll retreive those items before carrying on down the hall. If he has them, he'll holster the gun and, armed with the iron, proceed down the hall once the lighter is cooled and re-useable.

Charles doesn't have them on him after the confusion of everything going dark but he might be able to take a look around to find it. Having said that, his lighter is getting quite hot.

OOC,No problem. I just thought something more sinister was about to happen with my un-lit lighter!

Charles stands in the dark, pondering recent events. Despite his usual demeanour, he is anxious about Lily.

That little shit better not be fucking around!

He can hear his thoughts so clear in the darkness of the bar, he can swear he spoke them aloud. He pauses and takes a breath...

Dammit! If that lunatic hadn't shot me, I could have kept myself together better...

He chuckles out loud realizing the unintentional pun that came to mind. Then he remembers what he saw at the bridge and gives the lighter a quick flick to see if the whiskey bottle was near to him at the bar.

Gotta keep it together...They better not have her.

His mind spins a bit and he curses out loud at the non-existent Rochelle...

"DAMN YOU! YOU RAG! WHY DID YOU BRING US HERE!"

His voice echoes loud into the hollows of the darkness and the silence that returns sends a shiver upon his soul. He flicks the lighter again searching for the bottle. His anxiety is fever-pitched and he glances back through the darkness in the direction of the back hall. He has to find her but he will not go weaponless...

It was then that Charles remembered his second lighter. He began to fumble on his person looking for it...

OOC,Do I need a Luck Roll to find that second lighter as stated on my character's equipment list?

That single flash of light does indeed reveal a broad variety of booze on the shelves behind the bar counter.

Charlie's fingers quickly grab that other fresh lighter.

Charles uses the new lighter to quickly find a bottle of whiskey. Upon its discovery, he grabs the bottle and deftly, with just his thumb and forefinger, flicks the cap off and pilfers a swig. As the burn of the alcohol reaches his belly, he thinks to himself...

I've got to keep it together. I have to get to that hospital but I need to make sure Lily is not here...

He pockets the warm lighter and, with the new lighter, begins to search the cluttered ground for either his gun or the tire iron...or at this point anything that can be utilized as a weapon...

The tire iron sits on the floor only a few paces away from the pool table but there is no sign of his gun. There's also a few pool cues stacked up against one wall nearby. Its odd but despite his eyes having adjusted to the gloom the light from the lighter barely extends more than a few feet around him.

Charles thinks for a second. A pool cue would have longer reach but he has met some tough hombres in his life and it wouldn't take much to shatter one with a single strike. He elects to retrieve his tire iron and then makes his way down the hallway towards the washroom. As he walks, he tries to squint past the halo of light created by the lighter but to no avail...

The washroom is stark in its emptiness. Tiles have fallen from the walls, plaster flaked from the ceiling, collecting on the peeling linoleum like the detritus of a life that's passed him by. There's truly no sign of his sister or of Rochelle. The mirror glass is cracked and it reflects his face in a ridiculous form - all jagged edges and doubled angles.

Charles scans the room and, seeing no alternate means of exit, lashes out. It is as if the room itself is mocking him and he swings at the mirror with the tire iron, shouting out at the same time...

"DAMMIT! WHERE DID SHE GO!"

His voice and the sounds of shattering glass momentarily breaks the shroud of silence filling the room but the stillness returns just as quickly. In the aftermath, the fragments of the mirror remaining only further distort his appearance...

With his blood pounding in his temples and his breath coming in quick, short bursts, Charles sets upon a course of action.

I need to find that hospital and get medical attention first then I'll find Lily...

He returns back down the hall into the bar. As he passes the bottles, he selects something small and handy that fits into his inside jacket pocket...perhaps a 375 ml liquor bottle but a beer bottle would do. Anything he could use as a weapon on the go, smashing the bottom off when the time comes to utilize as a jagged knife. He intends to scan for his gun as he makes his way to the exit into the street, alternating between the two lighters he has...

There's certainly plenty of choices of liquor bottles and he slips it into his pocket. There's really no sign of his gun around here. Outside the sky is heavy and black and shards of smog brush past him, cloying at his lungs and making him sneeze. It smells like ash and pollution and its making him dizzy. He'll need something to help filter the particles out of his lungs if he wants to make his way much further.

Charles exits the bar and is overcome by the thick smog permeating the streets. His body is wracked by painful coughing and sneezing fits, all the more worse due to his injuries. He fumbles on his person for some form of protection...

OOC,If I do not have a hand kerchief on my person, I will tear a large strip of my dress shirt (hopefully made easier by the fact I took a shotgun blast) and douse it in some of the liquor I brought along to use as a make shift dust mask. If unsuccessful, I'll retreat back into the bar.

Charles tears loose some of his ripped shirt and ducks his head back into the bar to affix it so he doesn't just stick ash particulate into his nose and then pulls his head back and loose. His wounds bleed freshly into the makeshift bandages, pain arcing out across his muscles with every motion, but he's sure he should be in more pain from his injuries. Is this a good sign or a bad one? The difficulty now is trying to see with all of this whipping smog stinging his eyes. Goggles would be good. Shutting his eyes and feeling his way along might work. Otherwise its going to be slow going. Which way is the hospital anyway? He knows there's some sort of food place, perhaps a cafe, across the road from him and a park beyond that. Behind him ... who knows. The lake is that way. He knows that much.

Laraqua,Lol! You're killing me :lol: Must go on....

Charles considers going back into the bar but decides nothing would be accomplished that way. Maybe he could meet up with someone who could help...

He tries to find his way across the street to the cafe, blind and stumbling with the air burning his eyes with each attempted glimpse. He staggers and flails, hoping for the best.....

Luck is on his side as his normal stepping pattern means his foot is high enough over the gutter that he doesn't trip over it - though he does stumble a bit when the ground is suddenly higher than he expected. His flailing hand also grasps a telephone pole before his head would have hit it and then he is feeling along a brick wall. Left or right? Which way was it again?

With all the excitement that occurred after arriving at the bar, Charles is unsure of which direction the cafe was or even if he did spy one for sure. He goes left...

What is with all this smog? I bet they don't put this in the tourist brochures... Charles smirks behind the liquor soaked rag, attempting to amuse himself and keep his mind off the total isolation and helplessness he feels...

Charles follows the brick facing and finds he's walking past a house, his hand trailing across brick, his feet tripping briefly across a concrete porch, and hearing a sharp clack he opens his eyes for another brief glimpse and sees a front door that looks like it had been kicked in or otherwise broken so it can no longer close. It swings open and shut with the sharp winds, though it never opens all of the way, as there seems to be something blocking it from the other side.

Charles decides to take shelter in the house, if even for a few minutes. His eyes are watery and stinging from the polluted air he has travelled through and the place may offer some form of reprieve. He also decides to check for a phone, despite earlier failed attempts to call for help when he was still with Lily and Rochelle.

Charles makes his way to the door and attempts to force it open, even just enough for him to slip inside...

Charles slips inside easily enough and shuts the door behind him, though he has to use a foot to keep it held in place. His eyes are immediately grateful to him, though tears are still running down his cheeks, doubtless making it look like he's been crying. Luckily the cloth around his mouth should help cover that. His lighter can at least function in here if he needs to take a look around. He pulls out his mobile phone and finds that it's still go three bars worth of battery that should get him through the night unless he decides to drain it on the flashlight function or by making long calls. There doesn't seem to be any reception. Figures, with that kind of storm raging out there.

Charles returns the mobile to his pocket and gets his lighter. He flicks it on and looks for something nearby to prop the door closed but is also lost in thought. He is not even sure if he finds a telephone in this house, if it will work either. However, maybe he can find a phone book or a community guide that has a map of the town that he could use to find his way around. Shaking himself out of thought, he glances around at his surroundings, scouring for something to prop the door...

His lighter sends flickering caricatures from the shadows across the hallway as the wind whips through the gaps and makes the flame dance. Currently keeping the door from ever fully opening is a mess of rolled up fabric, bunched up almost like a human being, and stained with old blood and sweat. There's no telephone in the hallway. Perhaps in the kitchen? The only things in this short hallway is a set of stairs going up and a set of faded black and white photographs of happy families with a very stern looking eldest son.

Charles extinguished the lighter and with both hands, attempted to pull the rolled up fabric, despite its appearance, closer to the back of the door to get it to close further and prevent any of the smog from seeping into the house.

Laraqua,If he cannot move the fabric then he will leave it at its present location and carry on.

He turned back towards the hallway, re-lit his lighter and began to look for a doorway that led to a kitchen or living room. As he passed the photographs, he could feel an air of eerie familiarity, despite not knowing the people in the pictures. The hair on the back of his neck began to stand up and he averted his eyes away from them, instead focusing on the walk ahead...

The fabric has a disturbingly disjointed weight to it, as though it held something within it, but there's no firmness inside it which makes the weight feel misleading. To his hands its like its just a heavy dampness inside it but to his muscles it has the kind of weight that a blanket-wrapped body should have. It shifts readily enough and the door shuts, though not without allowing in some more of that miasma through the gaps around the door jamb. At least there's a lot less of it now and it's already starting to settle on the floor. There's stairs heading up, two doors on the left, one on the right, and one under the stairs.

Charles began moving down the hall amidst the flickering shadows created by his lighter. Still averting his gaze from the photographs on the wall, he made his way to the first door on the right. Holding the lighter in his left hand, he freed up his right hand by placing the tire iron under his left arm then tried the doorknob...

OOC,Sorry I forgot about the juggling act I should be doing with the tire iron I was packing :oops:

It leads to a living room with a big overstuffed couch covered in teddy bears that are bathed in the flickering snowy light of a static-filled widescreen television. There's something about the static that implies that there's actual images there that he can't quite make out.

T.V.'s on but no one's home... Charles thinks to himself. He considers calling out to see if anyone responds but then figures if the front door was open then most likely no one is here.

He puts the lighter out to cool it and save fluid, opting to operate in the dancing light of the static offered by the television.

If that thing is on, there must be power. Charles checks the wall for a light switch while glancing about for a lamp or some form of light. He's been in the dark since the bar and is hopeful to change that...

There is a floor lamp but the plug has been chopped in half. The light bulb overhead has shattered at some point in the past. Inside, however, even in the flickering light, things feel calm and quiet. Almost safe. The red plaid curtains block out any sign of the ash and other than the wind howling against the eaves and the occasional clatter of grit against the window glass, he could almost pretend that everything was normal.

Perhaps a place like this might have a flashlight.

Finding himself strangely relaxed in the solitude of the room and the flickering white noise of the television, Charles scans the room for other furniture, besides the couch...

There's a display case filled with plates. A lamp with a frilly pink cover. Thick curtains. A shelf containing metal toy trains that look relatively realistic. A dog bed and scratching post beneath the curtains. This really does look like someone's home. It's not one of those posh display model homes that look fantastic in an empty magazine sort of way that Charles' parents lived in nor the impressive sort of pad that he owns. Just by taking a glance around you can see that someone lived their life here. No, that they nested here. It just has a big sensation of home. There's even a knitted lap blanket laying on the couch.

The calm that has descended upon Charles is urging him to take a spot on the couch and close his eyes but then he snaps to attention. He is still injured and any nap could be his last. Seeing no drawers or cupboards to investigate, he checks under the teddy bears on the overstuffed couch, not really expecting to find anything...

I better keep moving on...check out the rest of this place...

He finds a steel key with post office box number on it. 265.

Surprised by his find, Charles rolls the key over several times between his fingers, studying it before he slips it into his pocket. He then returns the teddy bears to their original position on the couch. Despite his earlier 'bull in a china shop' routine in the last house when he was still with Rochelle and Lily, Charles feels almost guilty for disturbing anything in this room.

He takes a final glance around before heading towards the door but then stops. He feels drawn towards the television and turns back to approach it. He scans for a channel button on its face...

There is one on the old-fashioned television set. Flicking through it finds that most of it is full of static but there is an Emergency Broadcast symbol on a few of the channels that directs him to call 555-70-1210.

Charles is struck by the antiquity of the television set. He assumed none existed anymore let alone still worked. As such, he is skeptical of the number available. He contemplates calling the number but decides against it, choosing to save the remaining power on his cell phone. He repeats the number to himself under his breath in an attempt to remember it in case he comes upon a land line in this house...

"555-70-1210...555-70-1210...555-70-1210..."

He leaves the television on that channel and heads for the hallway to check the other rooms across the hall...

The first door leads into a kitchenette / dining area with fridge magnets from around America adorning the fridge, a lion shaped clock (the clock is on the lion's face) whose tail ticks the seconds away and a round dining table with four chairs that has a basket of plastic fruit on the middle of it. In the corner of the room sits an occasional table with a vase of aged daffodils sitting upright inside of it. On the kitchen counter that separates the kitchenette from the dining area is a bunch of yellowed bills held down by the telephone.

Having left the artificial light provided by the television, Charles is forced again to resort to his lighter. As his eyes scan the room, they fall upon the telephone. He immediately makes his way across the kitchen to it, picking up the receiver in hopes of hearing a dial tone...

Perhaps there is a God. There certainly is a dial tone.

But how can the telephone lines still be up in that storm? Perhaps they're underground here.

Charles is about to dial when he realizes his predicament.

Shit! I don't even know where I am. What street....house number...

He considers going back outside to search for a street sign but then balks at the thought of facing the smog again. He tries to recall the journey to the house.

Not sure how far I travelled in that thick crap but I still must be close to the bar. Within a block maybe?

He is unsure but does know he has to find medical assistance. He decides to dial 911 in the hopes of reaching someone...

The phone rings for a few rounds and then a mechanical voice states: "The number you have called is not connected. Please check your number and try again."

Disconnected? What the hell...

Charles knows he did not mis-dial. He slams the phone down frustrated then picks it up again. He attempts to call the Emergency Broadcast number he saw on the television if he can remember it...

A quick double check reveals that the number shows up intermittently between bouts of static as though the television reception was more than a little dodgy. Considering what the winds must be doing to the television antennae on the roof, that's not all that surprising. He dials the number and on the third ring the telephone picks up: "Hello, this is Detective George Wilson at SHFM."

Charles' heart nearly jumps into his throat. He had been alone quite some time and was beginning to feel the fingers of panic. As a result, the words pour out of him, almost too quickly to the point of incoherency...

"Man, am I glad to hear someone. My name is Charles Thompson. I've been shot and I need medical attention. I don't know where I am....some house...uh, it's got to be close to a bar. Annie's Bar owned by a whack job named Rochelle. It was near Combustion Street or something like that....and my sister is missing. I need help..."

Charles pauses, gasping for breath as if he just finished running a race...

Towards the end of his tirade Charles hears the voice come back over the line. "Damn. I'm sorry but if you are out there and you're talking to me and it isn't just this damn storm weather then I can't hear you. I hope to God you can hear me. I'm in the radio station which you can find if you follow Nathan Avenue toward the North West. This storm just came from nowhere and I managed to put on the emergency signal from the booth by the television signal towers. I don't much dare venture out there now. If you can get to a radio then we can probably speak with greater ease. I repeat: My name is Detective George Wilson and I'm at SHFM down Nathan Avenue toward the North West. I have a shortwave radio near me as much as, of course, the radio station's machinery as well. In case you're wondering, I'd avoid the police station if I were you. I think ... I think someone put something in the water supply. The other officers.... Please just come to me as fast as you can."

Charles puts the phone down...

Nathan Avenue...? Dammit I need a map....or some dumb luck...

He feels the lighter getting hot. He puts it out and switches to the cold one.

I have to find a map somewhere...

He glances around for a drawer or a phone book. While looking, he sees the yellowed bills being held down by the phone. He inspects them to make sure that they are just what they appear to be...

The yellowed bills are simply bills from the various companies - electrical companies, water companies, telephone companies, and bank statements. Apparently a Mrs. Jennifer Ashley used to live here. Perhaps she still does. The bottom most drawer of one of the kitchen cupboards gives him success. There's a street map of Silent Hill. Shame its so dusty out there. If only there were some way to keep the ash out of his mouth and eyes while still having some visibility. There is a way that's on the tip of his tongue. Something that might even provide a wee bit of armour. How could he do this?

Charles' excitement at finding the map is only temporary. He still has the problem of facing the miasma outside. His mind tells him there is a way but as he takes a mental inventory of what he has seen so far in the house, he fails to draw up a solution.

The basket of plastic fruit...the daffodil vase...frilly lamp cover...the toy trains...knitted lap blanket...television...What could I use?

Charles can feel a headache coming on. He considers taking a seat to rest but then contemplates continuing his search of the house.

OOC,This has had me stumped for a few days now :? . Exactly how thick is the ash? Would the knitted blanket prevent it from getting in my eyes if I wrapped it around my head like a keffiyeh but also covered my face? And would I still have visibility? BTW Happy B-Day!

There doesn't seem to be anything in this house that he has seen so far that would be effective but he knows that there has been something designed that was relatively common that people use to keep dirt and flies out of their eyes. Something that a bar owner might have if he could get back to that bar. What was it about bars and headwear again?

Glasses...?

Charles tries to recall if he saw any back in the bar that were not of the drinking variety. It feels like a lifetime since he was there. He glances at the map but he is unsure of his present location. However, he believes he may be able to re-trace his steps based on memory. He folds the map up and places it inside his jacket then returns to the television room and takes the knitted blanket to use as a cover for his mouth. He makes his way down the hall and, upon reaching the door, douses the area of the blanket which will be covering his mouth with booze from the bottle in his pocket. He fastens it around his head and prepares to step back outside, forcing the door open enough for him to get through...

It isn't too hard to dash back across the road despite the roiling ash but it is difficult to move without tripping over the kerb. He makes it over the gutter without too much issue, only to step up and trip over something rubber and chrome as he goes, knocking him onto his hands and knees. Reaching back, he feels the leather seat pressed into the metal of a motorcycle that must have been left here at some fatal point. Through gritted lashes, he can make out the vague outline of a dented light pole.

Charles grits his teeth in pain and stifles a cry. The fall itself caused no damage but did serve to remind him of the lead still embedded in his body from Jack's shotgun blast. He picked himself up and lingered for a second...

Some transportation would be nice to get to that radio station quicker but no doubt this bike is wrecked. Besides, this ash...

Charles carried on into the fog in search of the bar...

Something about the motorcycle niggles at him as he strides forward. Glass appears under hand and he follows the window along until her finds the door. Surely this has to be the bar. Hopefully.

What is it about that motorcycle...?

Charles moves on from the wreckage but something is nagging at him...

What is it? Are they here? He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. He tries to focus on the task at hand but his mind seems to think otherwise...

What did that detective hint at? All the cops were poisoned or something like that. The water supply...

Charles' mind is racing when he feels the cold of the glass. Sensing a reprieve from his brain, he quickly scrambles to find an entrance..

Charles finds the door and throws it open, staggering into the darkness. A quick flick of the lighter reveals that the place is much as he left it. There's no glasses in sight although, in truth, such an item wouldn't provide much assistance considering how the wind seems to circle and find weaknesses in even the cloth that covers his mouth. In the corner booth, however, there is a motorcycle helmet. Black, with red streaks along the sides.

Bingo! Charles thinks to himself as he grabs the helmet while recalling a scene from a Zucker-Abrahams film. Surely, someone would interrupt his triumph by holding up a card with the winning numbers...

He realizes that possibly his injury has made him off-kilter.

He carries the helmet to the door and makes one last spot check with his lighter for his gun...

OOC,Any reason the motorcycle niggles my memory? Can I make a roll for that? As for the bike itself, I understand it to be useless correct?

Show,it was mostly me trying to nudge you along to the idea that a motorcycle helmet would keep grit out of your eyes.

The motorcycle helmet is black with some red slashes by the temples that sort of remind him of Davies helmet. The thought of that man with his dark grey eyes and the livid 'V' scarred into his face by an associate who hadn't particularly liked his attempts to pick up his sister flashes through Charles' mind. The associate had been a member of a motorcycle gang that wasn't actually as criminal as everybody suspected. Marijuana and the occasional drunken assault. Davies had gotten some different treatment but, well, considering he was an escalating sexual psychopath, nobody had cared. Even his friends wouldn't help him get his own back. They said Davies got frustrated enough to turn to the cops.

Possible.

The truth was he turned up several months ago after driving into a brick wall, stone cold sober. They say there was evidence to suggest another car was on the road and had side swiped him. That's what they said anyway. The cops couldn't turn up anything, strangely enough. It was an interesting event and one that nobody talked about anymore.

Show,feel free to decide that Charles had a hand in this or perhaps even drove the car. If so, indicate it in your text.

There's no sign of his gun anywhere around here but there is a pool cue stood up against the wall that would do in a pinch.

Charles takes the helmet and approaches the exit, finding no sign of his gun again but this time confronted by the thoughts of a memory better left unexplored.

The bike outside reminds him of Davies. The bastard was crooked, worse than a stick in water, and it would be no surprise if his death was planned not accidental. However, Charles was not a fool who would be present at such an occasion...even if he had a hand in it through suggestion or even payed action...

Bloody pedophile. It was only a matter of time...you got what you deserved...

Suddenly, Charles snaps out of his nostalgia and starts to consider the list of names who may be here in Silent Hill...

Wait! No he wouldn't be here...and why would he sell me out...?

Charles can feel a rope tightening around him. So much to consider....he has to get going somewhere...away from here. He pulls out the map one last time before donning the helmet and making his way somewhere. Hopefully, away from where he can be found....

He takes a look over the street map of Silent Hill. Considering how dark it is out there and the obscene quantity of ash, not to mention the suddenness of the storm, the disappearance of his sister (perhaps by the back door), it just doesn't seem like a clever idea to strike out across the streets of this town without a destination. The hospital doesn't seem too far away but there might not be anyone there to treat him. It's also perhaps too far to reach if he aimed to get there all at once. It might be worth breaking up his journey with shorter destinations to keep himself from getting lost.

Charles studied the found map under the flickering shadows of his lighter in the darkened bar. He recalled vaguely viewing a map of the town before the trip but it seemed to be of the south side of Toluca Lake, not showing the north side. Besides, he had left that detail of the trip in Lily's care....It was her goddamn destination choice!

YOU STUPID LITTLE SHIT! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?! The frustration in his mind seemed almost audible in the black of the bar...

He looked again at the map. No doubt his injury and the events of the evening have played havoc on his memory. He thought they had been at the Observation Deck but that did not seem near the lighthouse that he had encouraged his sister to paint. Additionally, there was no cemetary on the map or no Combustion Street appearing as well. He realized that Rochelle was as insane and most likely drug-addled as he presumed...

What a useless bitch! Her and that 'Jack'-ass deserved each other... Charles smiled to himself as he planned what he would do if he ran into either of them again. Yeah, they'll have it coming and I'll deliver it...Shit rags!

He slammed the side of the bar with the tire iron. The noise was quickly swallowed up by the silence. Suddenly he felt foolish, being alone and all, and returned to examining the map.

He assumed he was at Annie's Bar. As far as he could tell, Nathan Avenue did stretch Northwest off the map but he did not see any marker for the SHFM station so who knew where it was or how far out. So much for finding this Detective Wilson. However, he did have the post office key he found and he did see a post office north of his location. He just needed to verify where he actually was. He would need to go outside with his bike helmet and try to find Craig Street or even Riverside Drive. Even if he found Sanford, he would at least know which direction was which. Anything other than that would require a re-group. Charles prepared to confront the uncomfortable disgusting atmosphere he was beginning to associate with this so-called resort town...

It would be difficult to read any street signs out in that madness so he'd be better off looking for buildings or judging it by the twists and turns and hoping for the best. However, there was bound to be something in the bar that would point to the location. A quick look around himself using the lighter quickly determines that he is, in fact, in Annie's Bar as it is written on a couple of the menus placed out on the tables in the booths. Apparently today's special is the schnitzel parmigiana.

Upon reading the special, Charles can feel a pang of hunger strike his being. He has not eaten for hours and the word 'parmigiana' is enough to do it but the word 'schnitzel' has always had German connotations for him. Its almost like he can hear Colonel Klink using the word on an episode of Hogan's Heroes and, as a child, relating it to some kind of Austrian weiner dog. This memory is enough to snap him out of his nostalgia for food and he proceeds to the task at hand...

He decides to proceed onto the street and attempt to recognize any of the surrounding buildings. He takes one last glimpse at the map, folds it up and pockets it then dons the helmet. He moves to the exit to face the ashen dark outside...

With the helmet on he can at least keep his eyes open and try to scrutinise the streets around him and this would give him a few feet of vision if only he had a flashlight. The wind will snap off the lighter if he tries to use it. Still, if he crosses the road and follows the wall west he should be able to avoid the park. It'd probably be best if he crawled so he could keep contact with the sidewalk.

Charles returns the lighter to his pocket and proceeds to crawl on his hands and knees. He feels humilated and helpless but then he has felt helpless for the last little while anyways. He only hopes to recognize a landmark to determine his location and the direction he is travelling in within the thick pitch. Despite his situation, he drags the tire iron along, hearing it scrape upon the asphalt occasionally despite his headgear...

Charles reached the first intersection. That had to be Riverside Drive. He crossed the asphalt onto the next sidewalk and kept crawling, feeling the bite of asphalt against his bare skin and hoping that he didn't stumble across a patch of broken glass. Remembering that he needed to turn left onto Crichton Street and that the only way to tell when that turn up was coming was to be on the other sidewalk, he crossed onto the left side of what he was hoping to be Riverside Drive. Time dragged out interminably. It was slow going on his hands and knees. After what seemed like hours he can hear a radio station playing noisily to the left of him. The motel perhaps? If so, maybe there's someone there. He can almost make out perhaps a light source or something similar.

Navigate Roll,[url=http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/3761198/]Navigate (10%) on his hands and knees... (1d100=76)[/url]

Charles carried on, attempting to find the source of the noise but not sure where he was going...

The ashen wind seems to clear a little as though obstructions were providing a wind break for him and he can see the glow of windows directly ahead of him. He steps forward into a calm zone a few feet away from the windows and flicks open his lighter to see the faint neon glow of a Riverside Motel sign. A black corrugated iron fence guards this safe area that seems to be largely without wind nor is there any real deposits of ash anywhere that he can see. Perhaps Lily had sought shelter here? There was a chance of it.

Charles immediately hunts for an entrance.

Maybe Lily found safety... He thinks to himself but then his mind twists like it usually does...

..Then perhaps, I'll smack her! What the Hell!! Leaving me behind... Whatta dumb shit!

He grasps the tire iron hard and checks around for a way in....

There's a gate that leads into the motel itself. Why the whole area is fenced off is anyone's guess. Usually motels sit wide open. Has this place been having trouble? Surely young punks could jump the fence without issue. Then Charles hears the sound of a few dogs barking, one of which ends in a blood-chilling howl. Maybe it's to keep out the dogs. In which case, it's best to get in their fast. Could dogs jump that fence? They should be able to. He unlatches the gate and steps inside, quickly finding an entrance to the motel building. The door opens smoothly and lets him into a small reception room with a desk, some flyers, and some chairs. There's no booking computer. Just a typewriter. The key board behind the desk is largely empty though there are four keys remaining: 101, 200, Diner, Bar, King's Room, Staff Room. There's also a few drawers and a filing cabinet in here.

OOC,Sorry, I've been absent of late due to RL action. Carrying on...

Charles closes the door behind himself and feels slightly relaxed, once again escaping the darkened ash. He removes the helmet and studies the contents of the lobby. Curious as to his whereabouts, he investigates the flyers to see if he can procure a motel name and maybe reference it with the map in his possession...

Its the Riverside Motel. The flyers are for various things to see and do: Silent Hill Historical Society Ghost Tours, Toluca Prison ghost tours, Lakeside Amusement Park, Artaud Theatre productions, and a flyer of the various pubs and clubs in town.

Charles notes the name of the motel and quickly withdraws the map from his pocket. Under the flickering glow of his lighter, he finds its location and realizes that he now has an exact location and a point of departure to work from. He sees that the Alchemilla Hospital is only north of his location and decides that this should be his point of destination...

What a handle for a hospital... Charles rolls his eyes for no one, mostly himself...

Before regrouping and departing, he decides to look for the staff room. His wounds have been bleeding through the old bandaging and could use a fresh cover. Perhaps, a first aid kit may be present...

There are two maps on the wall behind the counter and near the door to the Manager's Office. One shows the ground floor and the other shows the first floor. If he heads out through Employee Parking he should be able to reach the Staff Room easily enough. Unfortunately, the door that would head out to that one has a busted lock.